Devan

The aroma of roasted chicken fills the kitchen as I stir the potatoes. Sticking a fork into one, I announce, “I think they’re ready to mash.”

Mom turns from where she’s cutting fruit for a fruit salad. “Do you want to mash them?”

I scrunch my nose. “Ricky will complain about lumps.”

Mom’s smile grows. “If that’s the only thing your brother complains about during the meal, we’ll be getting off ...